


shorn

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Series: Star Wars snippetfic [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, UST, snippetfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:26:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7679068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You. Got a haircut?" It was more of a question than Finn meant it to be. He took in Poe's rumpled jumpsuit and the blurry rust-colored scratch on his temple and swallowed the phrase 'Holy stars, *what*?' out of recognition for how many witnesses were within earshot.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	shorn

Finn's assignment that morning wasn't classified, just involved enough weaponry inventory and testing to keep him busy for the short half-day stretch between the pilots going into the forest and coming back out again. His recruits had the day off; he didn't. His efforts were made more difficult by an unpleasant prickling sensation going up the back of his head, which he tried to shake off to little success. 

Whatever the pilots had been doing in the forest was supposed to be top secret. When whatever had happened, happened, in true base form -- Finn would forever be amazed at this sort of thing, which seemed to be a universal condition -- within a quarter hour the rumors flew faster than a squadron pursuing a fleet of TIEs. Even the droids gossiped, or especially the droids gossiped, Finn mentally corrected, and the theories ranged from explosions to spies to wild kath hound attack. Never mind that all kath hounds were wild and none were indigenous to this moon. 

He was five shelving units deep before someone passing by the room said the name _Dameron_ in a definitively worried-sounding tone.

Poe. Poe, Finn thought, could take care of himself and his squadron without breaking a sweat. He repeated this to himself a dozen times while inputting tallies and checking blaster barrels and working to apply logic to the situation. If something had happened to Poe, the Resistance wasn't the type of organization to hide an accident or the evidence of one, and everyone would surely know all the details, including Poe's medical condition, by lunchtime. Ergo, Poe was probably unharmed.

After a long two hours Finn left his post at a reasonable stopping point with an enthusiasm only slightly close to manic. He jogged outside and noted with relief the pilots who had started taking their places beside their fighters. Most of them didn't even look sleepy, much less maimed and/or mangy. 

Crossing the tarmac he waved hello to Snap. He jumped out of the path of an oncoming R2-D2, who was speeding by in what appeared to be a deliberate attempt to outrun C-3PO, who was yelling for, or at, his friend in his typical panicked way. And Finn pulled up short at the sight of Poe hopping back out of _Black One_.

To be fair, no part of this in and of itself was rare for either Poe or Finn. Finn had enough self awareness to admit this. And it was great that Poe, like the rest of the pilots, had not been blown up or eaten by hounds during or after some mysterious trek in the woods. But. The rumor mill might not have been entirely histrionic.

"You. Got a haircut?" It was more of a question than Finn meant it to be. He took in Poe's rumpled jumpsuit and the blurry rust-colored scratch on his temple and swallowed the phrase 'Holy stars, _what_?' out of recognition for how many witnesses were within earshot.

"I'm okay, honest, everything's good," Poe said, tone so earnest Finn started revising his belief that Poe was incapable of lying to his face. He watched Poe scrub a hand over the back of his newly shorn head and grimace. 

Poe's eyes snapped to Finn's. Caught, he conceded, "It'll heal."

"Uh huh," Finn said, knowing that was both true and completely beside the point. "I should see the other guy, right?" 

He wondered, parenthetically, if the other guy had lost a head full of curls so envied they had their own fan club on the in-house eboards the base residents used for comms, meet ups, swapping used goods, enormously long and often argumentative critiques of popular holovids, and earning extra credits with odd jobs and surreptitious forms of gambling. Those curls were legendary.

Pava walked by, a dinged up helmet tucked under her arm. "Hey, Finn. Did you know singed hair smells terrible?" Her tone was frostier than usual, but Finn was certain she was not directing her frustration towards him.

"Yes." Finn wouldn't be explaining why he knew that, but he most certainly did. The rancid scent was not one a person forgot, even if they wanted to. Finn supposed it was a good, or maybe just thankful, sign that he couldn't smell singed hair at the present moment.

Pava wasn't talking to him; she was making a point, and tossed the helmet to Poe. He caught it, in return giving her a look also too pointed to be meaningless. Pava sighed and kept walking.

Finn let his supply bag drop to the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. He was only taller than Poe by an inch, but he had ways of making that inch count.

Poe smiled, all charm and no warmth. "The Resistance will not be intimidated by you either," he said, standing up a little more straightly. He tempered his expression. "I swear I'm fine."

"Obviously," Finn said. "See how I'm not arguing? Not darting around, not rubbernecking over whatever the kriff's the reason you suddenly have less hair than I do? See how respectful I'm being of your personal space?" He didn't like acting this way, but dammit he was unsettled, to say the least.

Poe's mouth quirked. "Is that what we're calling this? Respectful?" He was somehow a lot closer than Finn had originally judged, like one of them had moved forward.

Maybe both of them had. Poe's eyes were very...just very... Brown, Finn decided. Like, brown. The word made a drawling vowel sound in Finn's mind and he chose to ignore it.

He took a breath, a discrete deliberate inhalation in perfect coordination with stepping back a smooth fraction. Poe's eyes were definitively more than brown -- that no warmth thing? Yeah, no, that was...not...correct, but Finn did not have time to quantify that or any other element of Poe's existence.

Across the tarmac a handful of pilots were now running to their X-wings, and techs were starting to roll away their tool carts. The mechs who'd been running diagnostics on _Black One_ exchanged a series of beeps that seemed to indicate all systems go and then rolled off, beeping at each other, after Poe gave them his thanks.

"Looks like the order to go out's come through," he said, with a degree less than his usual enthusiasm.

Before Finn could respond to that, someone forcefully yelled, "Dameron. Organa. Now," from the headquarter entrance. Everyone's conserving words these days, Finn thought.

"Coming with?" Poe asked, crouching slightly to pick up his bag and Finn's.

Finn didn't say anything, just took the bag from him and shook his head in the manner of a person so put-upon it was a miracle the scoundrel in question could be tolerated. Poe's smile this time was smaller, but more genuine. 

Finn made a fist of his right hand as a precaution against tipping Poe's chin up and checking him for further injury. He stood still while Poe stepped away. 

Whoever had buzzed Poe's hair had done a reasonable job of it, had been careful in not further damaging the prominent if shallow wound Finn was now observing. In the middle of the back of Poe's head the already scabbed over zigzag scorch mark was prominently dark red but didn't seem infected.

Of course, whatever had happened -- a phrase Finn was weary of thinking -- had only happened a few (a few?) hours ago. 

Poe looked back at Finn and shrugged. "Could've been worse." 

No doubt. Still, the entire back of Finn's head was pricked with heat. The sight of the wound made something jagged claw at his brain. He counted to five, remembered his goal to stop reacting to everything the way C-3PO would, and kept from presenting any smart-mouthed commentary on the matter.

People got hurt doing the kinds of jobs they did, under the circumstances they did them. But other people knew how to mitigate the worst of it. Poe was fine and would be fine. No reason for Finn to act like every day was another wretched disaster waiting to harm those he lov--

The people he cared about.

Finn checked himself, made sure he could speak without needing to clear his throat. "I believe you. But after the meeting, you're telling me what happened." 

Top secret my ass, he thought, and it helped to keep anything else from taking up too much space in his head.

It helped, but it didn't eliminate. Poe had a look in his eyes -- BROWN, Finn thought -- that Finn was not going to dwell on either.

"Yeah," Poe said, nodding. "I will." 

Finn shouldered his supply bag, watched Poe shoulder his own. He didn't seem to be in pain. Finn stepped up side by side with him. Poe gave him another small smile, this one maybe more apologetic; Finn felt something ease inside himself at the same time he knew there was a type of tension building that he would not be able to pretend wasn't there many more times. 

He began a brisk stride east toward the General's office. Poe fell in line. He didn't glance at Finn again, and Finn didn't glance at him, and everything unspoken was a weight they quietly carried between them a while longer.

**Author's Note:**

> I love the curls, but I'm not over [this haircut](http://oscar-isaac.com/photos/displayimage.php?album=141&pid=7801#top_display_media) or any variant of it.


End file.
